Mantra, Boneyard, Shelby, blind faith,
Lord Pumpkin and Giz
are owned by Marvel Comics.

Somewhere in the mountains of Napal
8:30 am October 10th 1999

Wind whistles over the velvet blankets of deep snow, covering the mountainsides separating Tibet and Napal. Amongst the rugged weather, of the bitter cold a lone figure sits in the traditional garb of the Tibetian monks. His head is bowed his eyes closed. The large man seems not to be the least bit worried about the weather. Maybe his nanotech healing factor is working, most likely that isn't it though. You see this man is or was a Ultra-hero for hire, he was called WarStrike. Though for the last two years Brandon Tark has resided here in the mountains of Napal.

At one point Brandon Tark was one of the richest Ultra's around, he may still be, though he doesn't care much about money anymore. Brandon gave all that stuff up. After the whole God Wheel crisis, his whole outlook on life changed. I guess after seeing, yourself slaughter thousands of innocents, your thought process isn't going to remain unchanged. So he gave up, he had no desire to continue fighting for morals that seemed unbeatable. As Warstrike, Brandon fashioned himself as a hero, but what kind of hero, asks for money upfront. Brandon hasn't thought about those days for a long time. Brandon has since, found he can help people with his born ultra ability, his own sight into the future, not the one he bought, to make killing people easier. Though now for some reason, Brandon isn't on the wire, and yet he is seeing parts of the past, though he's not around anything that would give him the ability to do so, no Brandon, is thinking about his own past.

I really hate thinking about those days, my days as Warstrike. I mean sure I still hunger for the thrill, of my life slipping out from under me, but why did I end up just becoming part of the thing I was fighting against. It's my friggin adrenline. It seems I was cursed all the way around. What kind of man is born with increased adrenline production, and this seeing into the future stuff? I'll tell you who good ole me. It's kind weird really, I wasn't always this crazed lunitic. When I was a kid, I was good natured, I never even stepped on an ant. Though with puberty came, my uncontrollable rage. Like natural steroids, is what I got. I got really muscular really fast. Lucky I didn't get all that back hair, and acne. It was nice at first, all these girls all over me. Though thinking back, at that time I wasn't called an ultra, just abnormal. I was just born a little different. I mean kids are always born separating them, now us abnormal humans are classified with the freaks that blast energy beams out their eyes, and gigantic monsters who can fly, and turn into thirteen year old boys. Lucky I found this place when I did. I can't even remember the last time I got pissed at somebody. Though I must say those early days as WarStrike sure were fun. Though I was a whole different person, all angry at the world, but totally taking the wrong stance against it. Most of the jobs I took got me more and more pissed off. I was a totally dark and depressed guy during that time, it was only the jobs I took that let me forget who I was, cause as Warstrike, I could be who I wanted to be. I forgot to focus on myself, now finally, I'm coming back into terms as Brandon, at last Warstrike is put to rest, and Brandon Tark, for once is content.

Banks International
5:00pm October 7th 1999

Nestled in the Buisness District in South Los Angeles, no buildings ever standout from one another, a building is a building, worked together like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. In this rabble of concrete and glass, one building does stand out, to those who know what goes inside. Nicholas Banks, stares out the window, of this building. His thick black hair combed straight back, in a fashion that has long been forgotten, by everyone but politicians. Though Nicholas is a rich man, with his soft blue eyes peering out of the wire frame glasses affixed to his perfectly round face. The Tan skin that covers up the bones and flesh, seems almost to smooth, some would call him beautiful, just not to his face. Nicholas turns to the table behind him. The large oak wood rectangle, that stretches from wall to wall. The nine men and women who are seated around the tables dark shiny finish, represent ninety percent of a crime family that has made it's home in LA for six generations. Though for the last few years the Assembly has fallen on bad times, they credit most of the losses due to the ever increasing number of Ultras presenting themselves to the public. Nicholas takes a deep breath of air, scanning each face amongst the table.

"I thank you all for coming out here today." As Nicholas speaks, his voice is cold and callous, his tenor voice seems almost devoid of all emotions. "I have spoken to you all individually about the problem we are facing in this, some call the era of the Ultra. I'm sure there is not a single on of you here who has not felt the grasp of them. I have been informed by a handful of you, that you even have ultras in your family. This does not strike me as in error in anyway. How else to beat fire, but with fire?" A few claps ring out between those seated. "If the ultras serve the prime directive, than why not use them. Though we are faced with a bigger threat, than the apperance of ultras, it's the high and mighty ultra heroes we must worry about. Though no need to worry, with a little help this problem, will very well be dealt with. I know of a weapon, that will have any ultra lapping at your shoes like a wounded dog."

A thin woman stands up, her blonde hair pulled up in a bun, a long wisp stringing down her cheek. Her name is Andrea Dilbert, a name not normally associated with a woman of her attributes. "Excuse me Mr. Banks." Her soft voice, gets authority. Everyone present has heard stories of her dealings, and to fear her, is an understatement. "Though how can a weapon, a single weapon be guaranted to do the trick, on say Prime, who has survived Nuculear bombs without so much as a scratch?"

"A very good question, from a very Beautiful woman." Nicholas smiles abruptly at her. "It will be much better if I show you when the said weapon is in my possession, which it isn't at the present."

"Then why did you ask us to be here?" An older man asks, interrupting Nicholas' speech. His dark eyes deeply enlayed in his wrinkled flesh.

"Well Mr. Stein, I wanted all of us in on the entire operation. From start to finish."

"What is this plan of yours, Mr. Banks?" Mr. Stein interrupts again.

"Well stage one, is the apprehension of the ultra known as Warstrike."

"Isn't he dead?" Andrea Dilbert asks.

"Not yet Mrs. Dilbert, not yet."

Sometimes I wonder about the people I left, when I walked away from life. The people I cared about, the ones who meant so much to me. Even though I regret sometimes about leaving, my company and my friends, I had to. Being Warstrike was like a drug. I often think about Shelby, Giz, and even those villains who'd rather see me dead, like Boneyard, Lord Pumpkin, and Blind Faith. Mantra now that's a name I haven't thought about for a long time. Maybe someday I'll see her again.

It's funny when I get like this and all these memories come around me, I think about holding a large gun point blank in someone's face, and pulling the trigger. It's trivial really. All the deaths caused at my hands should have gotten me into jail quick, I don't understand, how I could have done such monsterous things. The thrill once again. I had to have the thrill, and like a junkie, I want it, I want it so bad. Then thoughts come back to Minsy. Minsy was a little girl I all but helped kill. The thought of how a man could kill a little girl, and blame it on a man already dead, is beyond me. Though it didn't take me long to get over that one.

Then there is the nanotech healing factor inside of me. I don't know why I'd spend half of my forchune on a small computer, that was supposed to save my life, and I only wanted it to work some of the time. You see I bought the technology from a small company called Woo-parts. Woo-parts were known for their faulty technology. No need for that stuff now though, no need for anything but nature.

Bank international
Southern Los Angeles
7:30pm October 7th 1999

Nicholas Banks sits his office, thirty stories above the corner of Washington and Carver. Nicholas watches the small words form across the screen of his laptop, as his fingers tap away at the keyboard. "It's amazing, is it not, Mrs. Hershell?" Nicholas calls out to his secretary, who has been watching him on and off for the last half hour. Debbie Hershell was payed a healthy sum of money earlier this week, to keep tabs on her boss. Though like most the employees of Banks International, she didn't know what she was getting herself into. Everyone who is legally employed by Nicholas Banks, work for a finacial firm, that works around the globe. So when Debbie Hershell was asked by Mr. Stein, to keep tabs on Mr. Banks for him, she had no idea thirty-two hours later she would be dead.

"Excuse me Mr. Banks?" She calls back to him, her soft voice sounds stressed, the waves cracking in her throat.

"Oh I was just commenting on the wonders of technology." Nicholas responds to her. "You see the same technology I'm using to iron out this deal in Russia, could have been used for your own finanicial gain as well, but we all know neither you nor Mr. Stein, possess… shall we say dynamite intellect."

"I don't think I quite follow you sir."

"No need to worry Mrs. Hershell you will soon enough." Nicholas looks back over to his screen, pauses and types a few words. Grinning he reaches into the pocket, inside his blazer, then fishes out his cell phone. Folding open the small plastic casing in his hand, he presses seven digits, letting it ring as he bringings the phone to his ear.

---Hello?---

"Ted, hi this is Mr. Banks, how are ya doin kid?"

---Oh, hi Mr. Banks I'm fine. You doing okay?---

"Yes Ted I'm doing just fine. But I do have a favor to ask."

---What kinda favor, if it's my power to grant it I will.-

"Bring yourself and two of your boys round to my office tonight."

---Yes sir, I'll be there.---

"Good, I'll see you later then." Nicholas hangs up the phone and smiles at himself.

Its odd sometimes thinking about how memories work especially mine, I have memories that are not mine, or have been given to me as a plea for help. One that sometimes gets me infuriated with what I did as Warstrike, when touching the skulls of the dead, I get to see the pain.

It's when I see things like this that it makes me hate myself. I remember about two and a half years ago, when looking for little Mitsy. I was in South America, Rain pouring down from the heavens like a large storm was brewing. I was on the trail of a ghost his name was Snowden. I was pointed out a much used path, through a jungle. The man whose name I can't seem to remember smiled as he adjusted the sunglasses around his large face. "your chasing a ghost", the man said this so calm, I didn't really calculate it as much.

I followed this trail deep into a jungle somewhere in South America, it was here I met a man with more nobility than I thought was allowed in this day in age. Quixote, was this mans name. His Torso seemed to completely made from metal. I wasn't sure if it was well designed armor or if he really was a borg. The mans large frame, and long blond hair looked a lot like I did back then. Quixote wasn't exactly the brightest star in the sky, but he had more wisdom then I did at the time. The knight as he fashioned himself as, had a purpose. Though it was Quixote that brought me to Snowden, now a corpse. Though it was when I touched the now fleshless skull that the answers to my quest were answered. When I reemerged from the straw hut, the villagers all looked at me. Their dark eyes, all watched my unnormally heathy body emerge from the shack of straw and wood. I looked at them all, the dying women, who's bronze flesh shined an unnatural glow, I knew they hadn't eaten in days. Though instead of sending Giz for some food, I did something worse. I took Snowden's Skull in my hand and kicked it. That was it. I brought the villagers to tears practicly, as I jumped on Quixote's iron flying horse, and flew back to the my helicopter. Yeah I was a real ultra hero.

Brandon Tark's Mansion
Beverly Hills, Los Angeles
October 7th 10:36 pm

"We cannot sell the company GIZ!" Shelby screams, Giz slowly puts the wrench on the table of his underground lab and slowly turns to the brunette woman towering a full foot over him.

"Shelby, the company is going down and quick. We've tried everything to retain a place in the market, Tark enterprises just isn't working any longer, not sense Brandon disappeared."

Shelby ran her hand through the free flowing hair that fell passed her shoulders. "I told Brandon to get out of the hero business, the Exiles where no good, it just made his problem worse."

"Come now Shelby we shouldn't keep thinking about the old. Brandon's gone, they found the Strike Costume reduced to ashes over a year and a half ago, yet we you still believe he's coming back."

"Damn it Giz, we've seen Brandon take on more than a bon-fire and walk out with just a few bruises."

"Well Shelby, I think we should stop this focusing on Brandon, and instead prepare for the buyers for tomorrow evening."

"I will do no such thing. Tark Enterprises is far from dead, but your right I should quit focusing so much on Brandon, and remember I am the C.E.O. it's my fault this company is falling to the pits."

Somewhere in the mountains of Nepal
10:45 am October 10th 1999

The helicopters look like small smudges in the sky from where the man once called Warstrike sits now. Though his training in with the monks have showed him how to look beyond the frailties of the human condition. The sounds broke Brandon Tark's meditation as soon as they got fifteen hundred yards away. The tight eyes opened quickly as Brandon's head turned up towards the skies. "They found me." Were the only words that came from his lips as he stood up in the snow, the white ice curving through his bare feet. The voices comes as a click maybe to warn him of danger, Brandon hadn't felt fear or anything but a peace of mind since the monks found him wandering the mountain side of this land. Though now once again Brandon felt it, felt what it meant to be hunted like the animals did.

Brandon darted off quickly as the helicopters neared still barely over the horizon, as he ran he saw the outcome of his venture, there wasn't one. With no place to hide what would happen. On one avenue he met death, the other capture. Unfortunately for the men who wanted him, he wasn't going out today, maybe he could explain to them what the Exiles were and that they didn't hurt anything. It was the law right?

Wrong. The Bullets began shattering the ice behind Brandon as he yelled. "Stop Warstrike." Sounded the voices from the helicopters. Warstrike, he hadn't been called that in some time. "We won't kill you, we have orders to bring you back to Los Angeles.

"To Hell with your friggin' orders!" Brandon screamed back at the helicopters winging a rock towards the copters now hovering a few feet above him. A shot hit him in the arm; another well-placed bullet hits his leg. The Woo-parts were not working right now, might have been the in operation combined with the cold temperature that made the nanotech unoperational. As Brandon falls to the cold ice, he feels another bullet biting into his back. As his eyes close he sees the pictures in his head again, one of Shein-li Lang the head of the temple. The old Chinese man said something to Brandon, but all he heard before he blacked out was.

"You have started your journey to the oneness your path has but one outcome."

"Warstrike." Brandon muttered as he lost consciousness. The helicopters landed a few feet from where Brandon laid, as a few men jumped from one of the helicopters. One of the men kneeled beside the fallen hero and took his pulse.

"He's fine Captain, seems his healing factor has kicked in."

"Good Doctor seems the companies will be very pleased."